Love Is A Higher Law
by transemacabre
Summary: Set in the early 19th century. Russia adores his young friend America, who adores him in return. On a visit to America's shores, their relationship becomes more intimate than Russia intended, and there's one complication: America is a virgin. WARNING: SEX
1. Chapter 1

During the long voyage to America's lands, Russia lay below deck and daydreamed. He dreamed about lazy summer days, endless fields of wheat and corn, cloudless blue skies, full bellies, and most of all, welcoming, embracing arms.

America had the warmest embrace Russia had ever known; he almost flew into Russia's arms whenever he saw his friend. Russia had been bewildered by this at first. None of the other nations welcomed him so enthusiastically, aside from his poor mad sister Belarus. They all kept a step back, offput by his bulk and barbarity and the way everything he touched seemed to _freeze_. All but America, who did not fear the cold, and who was not mad like dear Belarus. He neither feared nor disdained Russia, and the way he looked up at him with those sky-blue eyes, so adoring and hopeful, had made Russia blush so furiously before that he had to duck and hide his face up to his nose in his scarf, lest anyone see him flushing red.

The nearer they came to dock in America's port, the more Russia could almost feel phantom arms embracing him, holding him close, could almost feel the youth's heartbeat through his thin cotton shirt. Russia sighed and stared out the tiny cabin window, straining for a glimpse of Virginia's green shores. _Sometimes, I think Amerika is the only person who is truly happy to see me._

The ship had barely docked before America galloped up on a horse, panting, his trousers stained by the dust kicked up by his mount's hooves. "Ivan!" he cried excitedly, waving his arms to get Russia's attention. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming? I sighted your ship through my telescope and almost broke my neck riding here to meet you!"

Russia chuckled at that. He swung down off the ship and walked towards America, hand held out in greeting. "I wanted to surprise you, my little friend. Ah, but you're so not little now, yes? You've been growing since I saw you last."

America grasped his hand and used it to pull Russia closer, clasping his arms around him tightly. Russia gasped a little as all the air was forced from his lungs, as though America had remembered his freakish strength at the last moment and hadn't quite tempered it enough.

"I've grown an inch or so," America told him, letting go just enough that he could look Russia almost in the eye. Russia realized that if he stepped closer, he could kiss America's slightly sunburnt nose without bending down, and the thought made him giggle. America took that for mockery and pulled a face at him. "Don't believe me, huh?"

"Oh, no," Russia shook his head, pulling his arms away so he could raise his hands in appeasement. "I believe you! You are getting bigger and stronger all the time."

America glanced away. "Sometimes I think you're the only one who always believed in me, Ivan," he said.

Russia was a little uncomfortable with all the humans around to eavesdrop on them, so he quickly changed the subject. "Let us go for a stroll, da? Will you show me your city?"

America proudly took him on a personal tour of his little Virginia city with its neat little wooden houses. They walked by boys whitewashing fences, summer flowers bursting forth from every nook and cranny, girls bustling by busily with little woven baskets in hand. Russia inhaled deeply, breathing in sweet-smelling air, and his shoulders dropped a little as he exhaled, as tension melted from him.

They stopped to linger beside a pond, and from across the way they caught a glimpse of a couple walking together, enjoying the sunset. The woman walked in step with the man, each stealing glances at the other when they thought they might not be noticed. Russia and America paused, watching them as they walked around a curve in the road and disappeared from sight, still caught up in a world that encompassed only the two of them.

America turned to look at Russia, and the sun lit him from behind, making his hair glow gold and white around the edges. "I'm glad you came to see me," America told him softly.

Too humbled by America's sincerity to respond, Russia only nodded, hoping that America would recognize his response as shyness and not as discomfort. It almost _hurt_ to see America like this now, aglow with youth and the promise of youth, full of everything good. America was not beautiful, but he was young and strong and full of life, and Russia was glad that he was not beautiful, for that brought him back down to earth, made him seem obtainable. America looked away, as though for one last glimpse of the lovers, and Russia reached out, his hand barely brushing a strand of America's hair. It was much softer than he had expected, and he had a sudden wild desire to tangle his hands in it, to grasp America by the hair and pull his face close for a kiss.

America turned back, and Russia pulled his hand away, but not quite fast enough. America looked at him curiously even as Russia dropped his gaze to his feet, guilty hands falling to his sides. Suddenly he felt as barbaric as the other nations believed him to be, wishing to take America, America who thought the world of him, and lay him down beneath him. Russia wondered if America had ever been touched, wondered if that was why England had fought to keep him. His hands unconsciously twisted into fists.

"Russia, you..." America began, but cut himself off when a light flashed before his face, like a minature lantern.

Russia almost crossed his eyes trying to follow the little blinking, flying light. "This is one of your - what is your word - thunder bugs?"

"Lightning bugs," America said cheerfully, gently cupping his hands around the flying insect. After a moment, a light flashed, making his hands glow from within. America grinned up at Russia, then opened his hands again, letting the insect escape. More flashes of yellow-green light dotted the landscape as the lightning bugs took to the air. "They're everywhere in summer here. Do you have them in Europe?"

"Da, there are some in Europe." Russia reached out a finger; a lightning bug alighted upon his fingertip for a moment, then flew away. "Mostly they are living only in... very warm places."

"I couldn't imagine summer without them!" America said, and his teeth were very white as he smiled. "Watching them dance at dusk, searching for mates-" he cut himself off abruptly, saying "So you wanna head back now?" a little too quickly to be natural.

Russia arched an eyebrow but said, "Lead the way, Fredka."

Virginia was blanketed in darkness and sleep by the time they made it up the winding road to America's house. They shared a loaf of bread and some wine, neither feeling very hungry. They talked a little of politics, a little of history, but soon enough settled into a comfortable silence. America lit a candle and led Russia upstairs to the guest bedroom. It was small and warm, with a brass bed pressed against the wall, covered with a handmade quilt. Russia took one look at it and knew that his feet would hang off the edge of that bed, but he didn't want America to feel bad about it, so he kept quiet.

"Good night, Ivan," America said, stiffling a yawn. He sat the candle on the nightstand beside Russia's bed.

"Спокойной ночи," Russia told him in return, daring to rest a hand on America's shoulder as he did so. America cocked his head to the side and looked at him wonderingly with his sleepy eyes.

"What did you say?"

"I wished you a peaceful night," Russia replied, and they lingered there a moment before he realized his hand still rested on America's shoulder. He pulled it back as casually as he could manage. America shuffled next door to his own room, glancing back once at him over his shoulder as he did so. As soon as his door shut behind him, Russia released a deep breath and sank against the doorframe.

_It was not like this before_, Russia thought to himself as he undressed for bed. He had first seen America when the latter was only a lad, tagging along after England. England had clucked around him like a hen with one chick when it came to the boy, so Russia hadn't had the opportunity to interact with him much, but as he grew older the two gravitated to one another, as though caught in the other's orbit. Russia thought America was brave and had ridiculous amounts of promise, and for his part America seemed to find Russia... fascinating. It was America's naked fascination with him that left Russia so anxious. He didn't know quite what America wanted from him, and he doubted America knew, either.

He lay in bed, restless, until he rolled over and pressed himself against the wall, imagining America on the other side doing the same, the two of them stretched out lengthwise, seperated only by a couple inches of wood and paint. Russia pressed a hand to the wall dividing them, pretending he could feel the heat of America's body, the thrumming of his heartbeat, the rustle of his body in his sheets. After several long moments he realized this was doing nothing to help him sleep, so he sighed and slid his hand between his legs instead.

Russia didn't like touching himself; his hands were too rough and clumsy, and it was almost impossible to pretend they belonged to someone else. Most of the time this didn't bother him, for when he had no one warming his bed, he didn't think about sex much. But the thought of America laying in the next room, so close that Russia fantasized that he could reach out and tangle his hands into America's blond hair, made him so hard that he couldn't help but take himself in hand.

He tried to jerk off quickly, get it over with, but unbidden, images of his young friend sprang into his mind: America laying on his back on a grassy hill, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal his chest; America looking rumpled and well-fucked in his bed; America licking Russia's cock with long strokes of his tongue, eyes closed blissfully. That last image made Russia bury his face in the downy mattress in a frantic effort to muffle the groan he released as he climaxed. He prayed America didn't hear him as he spent into his hand.

Russia rolled over onto his back, panting. He groped for yesterday's shirt, neatly folded on the nightstand beside him, and wiped his hand on it. Running his other hand through his hair, he frowned when he felt a bit of fresh sweat in his hairline. _I am being a callow boy_, Russia thought ruefully.

After the deed, Russia felt a bit guilty for thinking of his young friend that way. America was far older than any human could hope to live, but by the standards of their kind he was barely more than a baby. Naive, good-hearted America who trusted him completely, trusted him when he could not trust any other nation, not even his own twin brother. Russia slid his eyes shut. He hoped he would never have cause to make America lose his faith in him. 


	2. Chapter 2

He must've fallen asleep, because the next thing Russia knew, a ray of sunlight was shining directly into his eyes. He grunted and sat up, smacking his lips and grimacing at the taste in his mouth. He was rinsing his mouth with honey water when America knocked at his door.

"Hey, Ivan! If you're up, pack a spare set of clothes, all right? We're going swimming today!"

Russia spat out the honey water. "Swimming?" He glanced at his bedside and cringed at the dirty shirt that he'd discarded on the floor. He grabbed it and stuffed it into his bag, hiding it from sight. "I'm almost ready."

He shrugged into some well-worn clothes, wound his scarf around his neck, and shouldered a smaller bag holding a change of clothing. He stepped out to find America already waiting for him, with a bag of his own in his left hand and a riding whip in his right. Russia took one look at America holding that whip and conjured up mental images which made the ones from last night seem innocent. He was mentally berating himself for them even as he followed America downstairs to where the horses were waiting.

"The place we're going is a little far," America said as he swung into the saddle. Russia likewise mounted the other horse. "But it's worth it, I promise. It's awesome." There was that word he'd learned from Prussia; Russia smiled a little at that. He followed America as they rode down a long winding little path, then off the path down treacherous rocks covered in slippery moss. Russia worried a little about their mounts, but the horses must've ridden this way before, for they did not founder.

At last they came out to a sandy little outcropping beside a stream. The water poured down over boulders, long since worn smooth by millenia of rushing water, into a pool. America swung down and tied his horse to a tree. He knelt to untie his shoes, then sat and dangled his feet into the clear, flowing water. Russia looked up from tying his own horse to see America stripping off his shirt, leaving him clad only in his breeches. Quickly, Russia looked away.

"Come on in, Russia," America called to him as he waded into the water. "It's not cold."

Russia bravely tore his eyes away from America's bare back and wet breeches. "In - in a moment," he said. He hesitated; should he remove his scarf? America would surely be horrified to see his scars. But he didn't want to get his precious scarf soaking wet. He considered his options as he pulled off his boots. Always it came back to the scars - the scars that rendered his outside as monstrous as his inside.

As though reading his mind, America lifted himself out of the pool, walking towards Russia as water poured from his trousers and body. He had a beautiful body, Russia thought hazily, watching him approach. Well-porportioned, just a little plumpness around his hips.

"Here, lemme help," America said, and Russia was almost too distracted by his closeness to stop him from unwinding the scarf from around Russia's neck.

"I...I..." Russia stammered. Finally, he looked at his feet and said, "If I remove my scarf, you will see my scars, Fredka." He peeked up at his friend nervously.

"Scars?" America tilted his head to one side. "What scars?"

"I am a very old nation," Russia reminded him gently. "My past has been brutal. I carry the scars. I do not want you to be... disgusted."

"How could I ever be disgusted by you?" America cried. "How could you ever think that? You're my friend, Russia, more than just a friend, I respect you and I - I could never turn away from you just because of some marks on your skin."

Russia wouldn't have believed such words from anyone else, save for his sisters, for Ukraine truly didn't care, and Belarus would love him just as passionately if he had no face. But still he clenched his eyes shut as he removed his scarf, afraid to see revulsion or pity on America's face. From him, Russia couldn't bear it.

His scarf dangled loosely from one hand. America didn't say anything. Hesitantly, Russia cracked an eye open to see America gazing at his face, calm and friendly, still smiling. _America doesn't care_, he thought, and his heart pounded wildly. _America doesn't think they make me monstrous._

America held out a hand, and after a moment, Russia accepted it. He let his friend lead him toward the stream. "I'm glad I could see you without your scarf," America told him. "You - you look good without it, Russia."

Russia blushed but murmured, "Thank you." He followed America up the hill, to where the water flowed over the worn boulders. America climbed across the slick rocks, nimble as a cat, and then slid down, whooping and yelling as he splashed into the pool below. He surfaced moments later, laughing.

Russia hung his scarf from a tree branch, and then tried to climb across the rocks himself. He was not practiced like America, and almost immediately the current swept him away, and his face went underwater. For a moment he was frightened by the lack of air and the feeling of being swept along, but then he slid into the pool and found he could stand. He surfaced, shaking himself like a bear, roaring as he shook water from his wet hair. He stood chest-deep in the crystal clear, cool water.

America splashed over to him, cheering, "Hey, see, it's not scary! You did great!" The water caressed the bones that swept elegantly down to his sternum, pooling in the little hollow of his throat.

Russia swallowed. "Great, da."

America swam closer, bending his knees so that the water supported most of his weight. He was now close enough that his hand accidently brushed Russia's arm underwater. "I still can't believe," America said, "that you would think I would be disgusted by you." He planted his feet and stood up again, now much too close. "Russia, I think you're the best."

"The best...?" Russia wondered aloud, but his words were cut off when America suddenly leaned forward and brushed his lips to Russia's.

Shock ripped through his brain. Russia flinched away, and instantly America's face crumpled. Still overcome by that kiss, Russia fought to explain himself. "Wait, America, wait," he called out as America turned and began to swim away, clearly thinking that Russia had rejected him.

America went to pull himself out of the pool. Russia sloshed behind him, reaching out for him. "Don't go, please." This close, he could see America's ears burning red from embarassment. He couldn't allow America to leave like this, thinking that Russia was angry or disgusted, possibly even thinking that Russia hated him.

"I'm sorry, I'm an idiot," America mumbled miserably. Russia locked his hands onto his shoulders and pulled him back into the pool.

"No, no," Russia said, struggling to keep from babbling incoherently. Damnit, why did his English always fail him at the worst possible time. "I was only surprised, the kiss was not unwanted, I-" and he pulled America around so that they faced each other in the water and pressed America flush to him and kissed him back with everything he had.

They stood like that for several long moments, Russia's lips moving against America's, his bulk pressing America to the slick rock side of the pool. America wrapped his arms over Russia's shoulders, pulling him impossibly closer. Russia released his grip on America's shoulders and let his hands wander up to touch America's neck, resting at last right below his jaw. Their bodies molded together from the top down, and a thrill ran through Russia's body as he felt the strong press of America's hips. They rolled their hips together, both seeking friction and release.

When they broke the kiss, America let his head flop back onto the edge of the pool, sucking in deep gasps as though Russia had left him breathless. Russia marveled at the water droplets caught in America's eyelashes, his flushed cheeks, the wide smile that seemed to say that America had finally gotten what he most wanted. Russia wasn't sure he had ever made anyone smile like that before.

America propped himself up on his elbows and gave Russia a look that was surprisingly self-conscious. "Russia, ah, I've never..." he trailed off, his cheeks burning.

Russia pressed his lips to the spot between America's eyebrows, then moved lower and kissed the dimple above America's upper lip. "Never?" Russia whispered, hot against his mouth.

A barely perceptible shiver rippled across America's body. Russia ran his hands up and down America's shoulders and sides, trying to calm him. America being a virgin changed the game entirely. Russia still shuddered to think of the loss of his own innocence; he would never wish such a thing on his friend. He deserved gentleness, care, deserved to be taught the pleasure his own body could bring him. No one had ever trusted Russia with something so precious.

"America," he said, gently rubbing their foreheads together. "I am honored, but I do not think I am who you need."

America clasped him tighter to him, as though fearing Russia might turn and leave at any moment. "Don't say that!" They were pressed so close together, cheek-to-cheek, that Russia could feel America's chest rise and fall as he inhaled. "There's no one else. No one," he told Russia seriously.

_No one else here, to lay him down and take his virginity? Or no one else in his heart and mind?_ Russia was too afraid of the answer to ask America what he meant. Instead, he reached down, grasping America's bottom with his hands even as their mouths met again. Their teeth clacked a little this time, but America moaned into the kiss as Russia caressed his bottom. Russia licked his way down his neck, pausing to tongue at the hollow of America's throat, before sliding down and claiming one of his nipples. He caught it ever so tenderly between his teeth, just enough pressure to make America gasp, keep him on that razor's edge between pleasure and pain.

Just the thought had no one had ever explored America like this before, that no hands save for America's own had ever touched him, made Russia so hard that he wanted to scream.

Russia's hands had a mind of their own, inching from America's buttocks to his thighs, and Russia barely caught himself before they got out of control. He pulled back, and America whined in protest. "Not here," Russia panted. "I'm not going to take you in the woods." He clambered out of the water, trying to ignore his obvious arousal for now.

America climbed out after him. "So a bed then?" he asked. Bold, for a virgin. Russia chuckled a little to himself.

"It will be better, I promise you. Less pain." Russia turned his face away and dug inside his bag for his spare clothes. He dressed quickly, stealing only a glance or two at America as he, too, stripped down and changed. 


	3. Chapter 3

The ride back seemed much shorter than the ride there. Russia both craved and dreaded their arrival at America's house; he was so aroused he was light-headed, but at the same time, he almost hoped they would come to their senses by the time they arrived. He did not want to get everything he'd wanted only to ruin it.

They rode up, stabled the horses, then America snatched Russia's bag and ran for the house, laughing. Russia chased after him, more curious as to what America was doing than anything. They ran inside, where America tossed their bags into a corner, then slammed the door shut behind them and bolted it. He leaned against the door, still laughing, his eyes locked onto Russia. The midday light shining through America's curtains cast them both in a warm, golden glow.

"God, you don't know how long..." America shook his head. "England always warned me about you, told me you were frightening and cold, but I never believed him. I wanted so badly to be your friend. Just to be close to you. And for a long time I thought I'd never want anyone at all, I thought anyone who'd want me would just want to conquer me, but whenever you'd touch my hair or my arm it would be like I was on fire..." He sank against the door, his eyes sliding shut, his hands trailing down his chest towards his belly.

Russia braced a hand on the door and leaned against America, gently brushing his cheek with his nose before pressing their lips together. America kissed him back and, much to Russia's surprise, his hands began to wander across Russia's body, stroking his shoulders, his chest, pinching at his hardening nipples, and then going lower to paw at Russia's belly.

Russia broke the kiss, panting, resting his face in the crook of America's shoulder. They pressed closer together until they were grinding against one another, their bodies instinctively seeking release.

"Upstairs," gasped out Russia, and America stared up at him blankly for a moment before comprehension dawned on him. "Just go sit on your bed and... get undressed," Russia told him, swallowing hard as he thought about America stripping out of his clothes again, just as he had down by the stream.

"But what about you?" America tilted his head to one side. His lips were reddened from their kissing.

"I'll be right up," Russia promised him, pushing away from him, already tugging his scarf loose again. America paused, but then bounded up the stairs and disappeared from sight. Russia let out a long, deep breath, curving his spine and resting his hands on his knees as he did so. He felt as though he were walking willingly into a sexual inferno; he could feel the flames licking him.

His young friend was waiting for him upstairs, naked or nearly so. Eager. Damnably tempting.

The next few minutes would've seemed very amusing to anyone who might've spied them: Russia tearing through America's cupboards, shedding articles of clothing here and there, frantically searching for anything that might ease his way into America's body. Russia knew from experience that spit would work if neccesary, but he preferred to make the experience as gentle as possible. At last, he found a small bowl of butter that would suffice, and now stripped to the waist, he followed America upstairs.

The only sound was the creaking of the stairs under his weight. Russia pushed the door to America's room open, wondering if America had perhaps changed his mind. His heart fluttered with a curious mixture of relief and sorrow at the thought. He peeked inside to see America perched on his bed, cross-legged, and naked. Russia lingered in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight. America had the rangy frame of a boy not fully grown into his adult body. Freckles dotted his chest and shoulders. A little hair curled on his chest, paler than that on his head, but not so ice-blond as Russia's own hair. Thicker hair began below his navel, down to the junction of his thighs, and Russia's eyes trailed downwards.

Perhaps a little embarassed by Russia's frank stare at his manhood, America drew his legs up towards his chest and cleared his throat. "Uh, what's that?"

Russia sat on the edge of the bed, and laid the bowl of butter on the nightstand beside him. "Something that will help us. Do you trust me?"

"Trust you?" America asked, wide-eyed. "Of course I trust you! What, uh, what do you want me to do?"

"Lay back," Russia said, capturing his mouth again.

America might be untouched, but he was a quick study, and he followed along with Russia's lead with unabashed enthusiasm. Russia dared to tap at his teeth with his tongue, and America let him inside his mouth so that their tongues could meet and tangle. All the while, Russia pressed him down onto the bed, resting his body against America's, thrilling to the way that America took his weight without protest or difficulty. He left America's mouth and licked his way down to a nipple, gave it a soft nip, then slid lower. He felt rather than heard America's sharp intake of breath as Russia licked at his lower belly, his hair tickling America's skin.

Russia paused to sit up and grasp for the bowl of butter, dipping the fingers of his right hand in it and rubbing them together. "This may hurt a little," he told America, before leaning down to lightly tongue his navel. "But I will not injure you, understand?"

America propped himself up on his elbows, watching with wonder as Russia's hand slid around the curve of his bottom and into the cleft of his buttocks, brushing against his entrance. "Ah!" America said, his expression more confused than pained.

"Too cold?" Russia asked him.

"Nah, just... odd." America spread his legs, and Russia couldn't help but stare between his legs again. America was half-hard, and besides being large, he was nicely-shaped, with the slightest curve to the right. Russia's tongue flicked out and wetted his bottom lip.

"America, slide forward a little," he said, even as he dropped to his knees on the side of the bed. "You will like this, I think." As America adjusted himself, Russia couldn't help but reach between his own legs and undo his trousers, freeing his penis. He worked a finger into America even as he reached up and took him into his mouth.

America shouted, his legs tensing even as his cock slid between Russia's lips. His body shook and he sucked in ragged little gasps. Russia hummed as he mouthed at America's cock, covering his teeth with his lips to protect him.

"Oh, oh, ohhhhh..." America clenched his eyes shut. His face contorted as his body was racked with ecstacy and pain. Russia slid another finger into him, making America shake more and clutch at the blankets with balled fists.

Russia was entranced with America's taste, his musky aroused scent. He stroked himself with one hand, while the other thrust in and out of America, trying to be careful not to claw him with his nails, or stretch him open too quickly. He was so tight that if Russia had any doubts to the truth of his claim to be a virgin, they would've been laid to rest right then and there.

America's face slackened as Russia sucked and pleasure began to override pain, his hips jerking as if they had a mind of their own, trying to go deeper into Russia's mouth. Russia had three fingers in him now, searching for that little spot deep inside him.

Fingers entwined in Russia's hair, and much to his amazement, America's grip was gentle, not forcing him down onto his cock. "God, Russia," America rasped. "You have the softest hair... imaginable..."

Russia's fingers curled just so, and America thrust forward helplessly, crying out as his orgasm overcame him. Russia braced himself, and sure enough, America filled his mouth. He didn't taste good, but he certainly didn't taste as bad as Russia had been dreading, and Russia swallowed without choking. He carefully licked America clean, even lapping at his sac, before sliding back up and laying beside him.

"That," America stared up at him with eyes so dilated they were almost black, barely ringed with blue, "was amazing."

Russia chuckled, settling in behind America, clasping his arms around his young friend. His penis, still hard, brushed against America's bottom hopefully. To his delight, America pressed back against him, a move that would've been wanton on anyone else. He let out a sigh that deepened into a low groan.

"Can I do something to help you, ah," America trailed off, obviously lacking the word to express what he was thinking.

"Yes," Russia said, sliding a hand along America's side, taking a moment to pinch the plumpness of his hip, before catching him by the knee and lifting his leg into the air. He quickly stroked his cock again, trying to slick it as much as possible, before positioning himself.

Russia licked the back of America's neck, smiling when he felt America shiver in response. "Try to breathe," he murmured into America's ear. "Breath and relax." The tip of his penis pressed into the entrance, and he bit down on his tongue and lower lip to keep control, keep himself from ramming forward brutally. He felt America take a deep breath and hold it, anticipating what was to come.

As he began to slip inside, Russia shut his eyes and buried his face in America's neck. Fortunately, he'd loosened up America during their first encounter, and although America was tight, he was not fighting him. Russia took it slow, working himself in until he was halfway into America, and then he pulled almost all the way out before pushing back in with a little more force. America released the breath he'd been holding with a soft gasp.

Russia tried another thrust, even stronger than the last. The friction was exquisite; America holding him so tight and hot within his body felt like it was meant to be.

He shifted so that his other arm could curl under them and hold America, and at the same time America's hand slid up and displaced Russia's hand at his knee, holding it up himself. This freed Russia's hand, so he began to stroke America's belly, marveling in how warm his skin was, before trying another stroke between his legs. Much to his shock, America was hard again. Russia had heard of men recovering so quickly before, but had never seen it for himself. He fisted America's cock and gave it a good squeeze, which made America squirm and moan in response.

Russia lightly bit down on the juncture of his neck and shoulder, losing himself in the feeling of sliding in and out of his young friend. "Beautiful, beautiful," he murmured with hot breath into America's ear, "and so eager, da?"

His fingers pinched at the tip of America's cock, and suddenly America was going over the edge, shouting as he came, his skin prickling deliciously. Russia held him through the aftershocks, still lightly stroking him with the tips of his fingers. Once America relaxed into his arms, Russia kissed him between his shoulder blades, then rolled them so that America lay on his belly beneath him. He braced himself, then drove in with more force than before. He caught himself, trying to force back the urgent need. _I did not want to take him so roughly_.

America turned his head and looked over his shoulder to lock eyes with Russia. His sweaty hair was plastered to his face. Russia couldn't stop himself from babbling, "You feel so tight, so good. I could die this moment and be happy. You don't know what you are doing to me..." He gasped as he thrust hard enough to make their bodies slap together.

The bed creaked beneath them. Russia thrust into America over and over, with more strength than he'd first intended, but America took all his power without quaking. Russia shook with the effort of holding back, and then suddenly he could no longer. He had just enough time to grasp America's shoulders and press his face to his back before he came hard. A groan rumbled up from his chest at the immense relief. He clung to America helplessly, his body collapsing atop him, weak as a kitten.

Russia rolled off of him and lay limply, staring at the ceiling, sucking in air greedily. He raised his hands and barked a little laugh at the way they shook.

America curled up beside him, their sweaty, sticky bodies resting side-by-side again. "Thank you, Russia," he told him sincerely, his eyes wide and bright. Russia began to laugh again, and then his laughs turned to soft sobs, and he caught America's face in his hands and pulled him close for a kiss. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later, America awoke, kicking off his blankets and feeling for a warm body beside him. Finding no one, he sat up, making soft sounds of dismay.

"I am right here," Russia told him, rising from from he'd been sitting beside the window, looking at the stars. They'd fallen asleep while it was still light outside, and Russia had woken with a start to find the sky dark and gray with lingering purple clinging to the horizon; the sun had just set.

He crossed the room, smiling at the sight of America blinking sleepily, his hair all a-mess. He looked adorable - and damnably young. Russia sighed and tried to put that thought out of his mind. All that mattered right now was being here, beside America - beside Alfred - warm and safe. And wanted.

America held out his arms to him as Russia approached, and Russia sank into them, letting America pull him back into the bed. Their legs tangled as they curled up together, America gently tracing the lines of Russia's face with the tip of a finger, as though learning him by touch. The great curve of his nose. The upper lip and then the bottom lip. The line of his jaw. Even a soft brush against his eyelids.

"America," Russia croaked out, "c-come, I still have much to show you." He quickly shed his own undergarments, leaving himself nude again.

America, who had never dressed again to begin with, moved closer so that bare skin could touch bare skin. "What do you want me to do, Russia?"

Russia shifted so that he was laying on his back, bending his knees so that America could fit between them. Russia felt America's arousal brush his leg as he climbed atop Russia, and moaned a little at the sensation.

America's eyes were wide and fever-bright with a kind of understanding, a longing. Something primal deep inside him knew what to do. "Will I," America licked his lips, "will I hurt you?"

"I will be all right," Russia assured him, reaching between them and guiding America to his entrance. He couldn't help bucking up a little, his own penis seeking the warmth of America's skin. This moment, this Russia loved - the comforting weight on him, the bare skin, the delicious tension before penetration.

Such a shame that Russia trusted almost no one enough to allow them into his body.

Russia licked his fingers and touched between his legs, wetting himself enough that the friction would not be painful for either of them. When America faltered, looking down guiltily like he was still afraid of accidently hurting him, Russia told him, "I won't break."

At that, America actually winked, and Russia was still gaping at him when he felt America enter him. He pushed his head back into the pillow and breathed through it, "Aaaaaaah" under his breath. He could hear America panting over him, his hot breath touching Russia's face.

America sank into him, their bodies slowly melding together as Russia adjusted to him. Russia watched in fascination as America's mouth fell open, his pants turning to low moans.

"Oh my god," America groaned, before burying his face against Russia's neck. After a moment he threw his head back, exposing his throat, as though gazing into heaven itself. Perfect bliss.

Russia grasped America's forearms for leverage and leaned up to kiss America's throat. "Slowly, now," he urged, fighting to keep his own voice calm. "Yes, there you go. Slowly. Let us - ah - let us come together."

America pushed in further until he was seated inside Russia. By now, his arms were trembling with the strain of holding himself back; Russia could feel the incredible tension in his body. Pleasure bolted through Russia's body at the thought - America, who was so young and so strong, America would hold himself back, he would lay with Russia and do as Russia asked, without question. There would be no force. There would be no pain. Russia would be a gentle teacher, and America, his eager pupil.

There was a reason Russia hadn't admitted to himself before, a reason he had allowed himself to take America to bed. The thought that if not him, then surely sooner or later someone would take America's virginity - _and perhaps they would not be so gentle, they would not care for him, but only break him as though he were a beast_, Russia thought to himself.

Above him, America tried a thrust, a little too hard it was true, but from youthful inexperience rather than a desire to invade. Russia raised his hips to meet him, and on the second thrust they found a rhythm. America, who was proving delightfully vocal in bed, said, "Oh god, Russia, it's like everything - I've ever wanted, better than that, maybe." He reached up and braced one hand on the wooden headboard before him, as though needing something solid to cling to.

Russia's own breathing grew ragged as his pleasure mounted. He slipped his free hand between their bodies, stroking himself in time to America's thrusts, his other hand still clutching America's forearm. He was almost completely hard and on the way to a satisfying climax when America by chance touched that little spot of pleasure deep within him. Russia cried out beneath him, his violet eyes fixed on America's face as though beseeching him for more.

America, impossibly, clutched at the headboard harder and drove down again, right where he'd been. Russia thought he'd go mad with the sensations racing up his spine. He stroked himself, aching for more, just a little more, and then he could - and _there_, like a key sliding into a lock, and white exploded across his vision.

Russia came with a roar, bucking upwards, almost throwing America off of him. America followed him, shouting out Russia's name even as the headboard cracked and came apart in his hand. He released inside of Russia, and Russia's eyes went wide as he heard not only splintering wood, but the ripping of cloth. America's other hand ripped right through the blankets and mattress, shredding it as easily as might a bear's claws, and his bed bled feathers and stuffing.

He sank onto Russia, his body shaking with the force of his release. They lay limp, sticky, sweaty, yet content. After several long minutes, Russia brushed the hair back from America's face and kissed him again, murmuring, "Oh Fredka, the things I will show you!"

* * *

><p>Three days later, with great regret, Russia had to leave.<p>

He followed America down to the port on leaden, reluctant feet. A few days of delight, followed by years of snow, war, rebellion - what lives they led, nigh-endless but never entirely their own.

Standing beside the ship, awkwardly facing each other and trying to ignore the questioning eyes of the sailors and diplomats, America and Russia said their goodbyes.

"Ah," America said, reaching up to touch Russia's jaw with his fingertips under the pretense that he was adjusting his scarf. "I want you to know that, no matter what, I'll never regret this."

Russia gave him a half-smile. "Never? Never is a long time."

A soft little scoff. "_No matter what_. No regrets." His own smile wavered a little at the edges. "You and me against the world, Ivan."

Russia looked at him, his young, hopeful friend who thought the world of him. The moments they had together - the intimacy they had shared - the trust America had given him - were beyond price. When he shut his eyes, Russia could see an afterimage of America: golden, hot, warm. He swallowed, hard. "Alfred, I -" he began to say, and then his eyes slid open and he quickly said, "I must be going. Don't forget me."

America gave a little bark of laughter. "As if I could."

Russia climbed on board, and stood at the railing, watching America even as his ship opened her sails. The vessel pitched as she pulled away from the dock. America stepped forward, then began to walk, and then sprang into a full run. "Come back soon!" he called, even as Russia's ship pulled further and further away. "I'll be waiting for you!"

America slid to a stop as he reached the edge of the dock. Russia stared at him, silhouetted in the sunlight, and inhaled a breath of salty sea air and called out, "You and I against the world, Fredka! I will return!"

America stood there on the dock, one hand raised in farewell, until Russia sailed out of sight. He wasn't sure if America had heard his final call.

Russia hoped valiantly that he had.


End file.
